It's Halloween, and Film Utopia is once again dragging a beloved horror franchise out of the cellar, chaining it to a tree and seeing what happens when we throw buckets of blood at it. Having previously put Halloween, Friday the 13th, Hellraiser and A Nightmare on Elm Street through the podcast equivalent of a wood-chipper, we're turning our attention to The Evil Dead. Groovy!

Steven and Sean are joined by the prodigal Benjamin, returning from his mysterious summer-long disappearance, for a blood-soaked tour through Sam Raimi and Bruce Campbell's original trilogy, the Ash vs Evil Dead TV series, and the modern unholy trinity of Evil Dead (2013), Evil Dead Rise and Evil Dead Burn.

We begin with the original trilogy, reminiscing about our first viewings from an era when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, VHS tapes were king, and horror films could get away with looking like they'd been shot by a cameraman having a nervous breakdown. We celebrate Raimi's deranged camerawork, the gloriously stupid slapstick, the evolution of Ash from whimpering man-child to chainsaw-wielding icon, enough quotable one-liners to fill a thousand pub conversations, and arguably the coolest suit-up sequence ever committed to film.

Next, we enter the world of Ash vs Evil Dead, where Steven and Sean enthusiastically recount some of the series' greatest moments while Benjamin sits quietly, hoping nobody notices that he's watched approximately one episode.

Finally, we venture into the modern era, where consensus becomes considerably harder to find. Steven and Sean find plenty to admire in the character work of Evil Dead (2013), particularly its decision not to simply recreate Ash with a new face, while Benjamin finds the relentless, joyless brutality an increasingly exhausting experience.

Evil Dead Rise fares even worse. Sean declares it one of the worst horror films he's seen in recent memory, with Benjamin firmly in agreement. Evil Dead Burn fares marginally better, although we're hardly handing out medals. The gore is plentiful, the plot is properly morbid, and the characters are so thoroughly unlikeable that you might find yourself rooting for the demons simply to put everyone out of their misery. Progress, of a sort.

So sharpen your chainsaw, stock up on sick bags and join us for a Halloween special packed with demonic possession, outrageous gore, nostalgic memories and a few questionable franchise decisions.

Groovy? Groovy.

A video version of this episode is available on Youtube, here.

Before the trailer, before the teaser, before the algorithm started throwing clips at you on social media, there was the film poster: one image, a handful of words and the enormous challenge of making you want to spend your hard-earned money on a film you've never seen.

In this first volume of what will become an occasional Film Utopia series, Steven and Sean each bring 12 favourite movie posters from across the decades, celebrating the designs that have stopped them in their tracks, sold them a film, or simply looked bloody fantastic on a wall.

We dig into what makes a great poster work, whether it's clever marketing, striking graphic design, a perfectly chosen image or simply an irresistible piece of visual cool. We also look at the changing role of the poster itself: from the elaborate painted artwork and giant cinema displays of the past to today's increasingly digital, social-media-driven world, where a poster has to compete with trailers, clips, thumbnails and an endless stream of imagery.

There's plenty of common ground. Our shared love of Art Deco leads us to the magnificent Heinz Schulz-Neudamm three-sheet for Metropolis (1927) and John Mattos' superb one-sheet for The Rocketeer (1991), while the bold propaganda-inspired design of V for Vendetta gets another unanimous thumbs-up.

But our personal tastes take us in rather different directions.

Steven embraces the glorious simplicity of the single-character poster, making a case for RoboCop, Captain America and Army of Darkness, while Sean gravitates towards posters that somehow distil an entire film into one deceptively simple image, with Dawn of the Dead, Jaws and A Clockwork Orange among his choices.

And because a picture is worth a thousand words, we've also recorded a video version of the episode featuring all the posters we discuss, available here.

So grab your imaginary cinema wall, dust off your pinboard and join Steven and Sean for Volume 1 of our celebration of the art of the movie poster.

The Dario Argento retrospective reaches its final chapter, and after five decades of black gloves, elaborate murders, supernatural nightmares and increasingly questionable career decisions, Steven and Sean arrive at the 2010s and beyond to discover whether the maestro still has anything left in the tank.

This time around, we tackle The Mother of Tears (2007), Giallo (2009), Dracula 3D (2012) and Dark Glasses (2022). And while neither of us is about to pretend we've stumbled across another Suspiria, there are some genuine surprises along the way.

The Mother of Tears proves far more enjoyable than either of us expected. It has its flaws, but there's enough imagination, atmosphere and sheer Argento thrills to make the final chapter of the Three Mothers trilogy a surprisingly welcome return to form.

Then comes Giallo, which manages the seemingly impossible: a film about a serial killer that is mind-numbingly boring. Its characters are so relentlessly uninteresting that even the murders struggle to wake us up.

Dracula 3D fares little better, although Sean is willing to concede that there is a certain so-bad-it's-good charm lurking beneath the digital cobwebs. Steven remains entirely unconvinced, refusing to grant the film even the dubious honour of being entertainingly terrible.

Thankfully, Dark Glasses provides a modest but welcome upturn. It's not vintage Argento, but its pacey story, straightforward plotting and refreshing willingness to simply get on with the bloody thing make it an encouraging late-career effort.

And then, finally, we rank them all.

In a lengthy reverse-order countdown, Steven and Sean reveal their personal rankings of Argento's entire filmography and, at the very top, we finally discover the answer to the question we've been building towards for five episodes:

What is Sean's favourite Argento film? And what is Steven's?

Five decades. Five episodes. One retrospective. One director. Countless black gloves.

Join us for the final bloody curtain call for Dario Argento.

Our Dario Argento retrospective enters the 2000s, and, frankly, things have not improved.

In the fourth instalment of our five-part journey through Argento's theatrical and TV filmography, Steven and Sean tackle Sleepless (2001), The Card Player (2004) and Do You Like Hitchcock? (2005), before turning to Argento's two contributions to Mick Garris' Masters of Horror: Jennifer (2005) and Pelts (2006).

By this stage, the golden era is very much behind him, and neither Steven nor Sean find much here to get excited about. Sleepless arrives armed with Argento's familiar bag of tricks; elaborate murders, red herrings and a killer hiding in plain sight, but undermines itself with moronic characters, staggeringly poor performances and a red herring involving a dwarf serial-killer that has to be seen to be believed.

Then there's The Card Player, which looks suspiciously like it was shot on a broadcast television camera and appears to have been constructed around a simple filmmaking principle: if in doubt, show someone looking at a computer screen. Repeatedly.

Do You Like Hitchcock? fares little better, or, as Sean christens it, “Do You Like Shitcock?” With an utterly unlikeable protagonist, laughable Hitchcock references, Argento's increasingly distracting self-inserts and one of the most bafflingly stupid escape sequences we've ever encountered, there's plenty for us to sink our teeth into.

Thankfully, the Masters of Horror episodes Jennifer and Pelts provide a modest recovery. Neither represents a return to Argento's glory days, but both deliver what we're here for: nasty little horror stories, inventive premises, memorable gore and enough gruesome imagery to remind us that the old bastard still knows his way around a splatter set-piece.

So, come for the Argento retrospective, stay for the increasingly savage lambasting. The gloves are still black. The plots are increasingly questionable. And somewhere, somehow, someone is probably still looking at a computer screen.

Our journey through Dario Argento's filmography reaches the 1990s, a decade where even the director's most devoted admirers begin to admit the wheels wobble a little.

In this third chapter of our five-part retrospective, Steven and Sean revisit Argento's contribution to Two Evil Eyes (1990), before tackling Trauma (1993), The Stendhal Syndrome (1996), and The Phantom of the Opera (1998). For Sean, much of this decade proved to be unexplored territory, while Steven arrived armed with previous viewings and the hope that a fresh revisit might reveal a few overlooked gems.

If the 1970s gave us the birth of modern Giallo and the 1980s delivered operatic horror at its most stylish, the 1990s feel like Argento searching for a new identity. The results are... mixed.

We find plenty to admire in Trauma, a film that proudly wheels out many of Argento's signature obsessions; black-gloved killers, elaborate murders, enough red herrings to keep a fishmonger in business, and a mystery that constantly dares you to look in entirely the wrong direction. It's an entertaining ride, even if it occasionally loses its way.

The biggest surprise of the decade, however, is The Stendhal Syndrome. Both of us come away enormously impressed by its intelligent screenplay, unusual structure, psychological ambition, and one of Asia Argento's finest performances. It's a film that deserves far more attention than it typically receives and stands as the clear highlight of Argento's later career.

Then there's The Phantom of the Opera.

Good grief.

What should have been a lavish Gothic romance instead leaves us scratching our heads at its baffling character motivations, muddled storytelling, and narrative leaps that would make even Argento's most dreamlike films raise an eyebrow. Stylish? Occasionally. Entertaining? Debatable. Coherent? Absolutely not.

A fascinating decade of highs, lows, missed opportunities, and one genuinely underrated masterpiece as we chart the point where one of horror's greatest auteurs began taking a decidedly more uneven path.

The journey through Dario Argento's filmography continues as Steven and Sean arrive at what many consider the director's creative peak: the 1980s. If the previous decade established Argento as the master of Giallo, this one saw him push his style into ever stranger, more operatic territory, blending murder mysteries with supernatural horror and some of the most astonishing visuals ever committed to film.

This fortnight, we revisit Inferno (1980), Tenebrae (1982), Phenomena (1985), and Opera (1987); four films we both regard as belonging firmly within Argento's golden era, albeit for very different reasons.

We discuss Mario Bava's invaluable visual contributions to Inferno, marvel at Argento's uncanny ability to turn cats, rats, dogs, chimpanzees, and a flock of ravens into arbiters of murder, and celebrate Tenebrae as one of the most endlessly rewatchable Gialli ever made, packed with ingenious clues, glorious red herrings, and enough razor-blade carnage to satisfy the most blood-thirsty of horror fans

Sean declares his undying affection for Phenomena, revelling in its gloriously unhinged moments and fearless commitment to absolute lunacy. Steven... would love to enjoy it more, but his lifelong fear of insects keeps getting in the way.

Finally, we arrive at Opera: a breathtaking technical achievement featuring some of Argento's most inventive set pieces and one of his strongest murder mysteries. Steven considers it one of the director's finest hours, while Sean finds himself wishing its final act had landed with a little more conviction... and sense.

Stylish, surreal, blood-soaked, and unapologetically excessive, this is Argento firing on all cylinders. Every murder is a set piece, every clue is a trap, and every frame is painted like a nightmare.

The Italian Horror journey continues as Steven and Sean begin a brand-new five-part retrospective on the work of Dario Argento, charting his theatrical filmography decade by decade. With new episodes arriving fortnightly, we begin where it all started: the 1970s, the decade where Argento emerged with black-gloved killers, garish rooms, impossible camera movements, and enough stylised murder to permanently alter horror cinema.

For this first chapter we focus exclusively on Argento's theatrical horror and thriller output, leaving The Five Days and his television work on the sidelines, as we revisit The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, Cat O'Nine Tails, Four Flies on Grey Velvet, Deep Red, and Suspiria.

Ever the movie geeks they are, Steven and Sean come armed with plenty of background knowledge on both the films and Argento himself. Still, we attempt to approach these rewatches with fresh eyes and reassess what still works, what surprises us, and what decades of horror fandom may have built up in our minds.

There’s predictable admiration for Argento’s latter 70s masterpieces, with Deep Red and Suspiria receiving the sort of glowing praise they routinely inspire (expect the usual enthusiastic gushing over Suspiria). Elsewhere, battle lines are drawn over the Animals trilogy, with Steven proudly flying the flag for Cat O'Nine Tails, while Sean showers Four Flies on Grey Velvet with perhaps more affection than anyone reasonably should.

join us as we step into the first decade of one of horror cinema’s most influential and distinctive voices.

This month on Film Utopia, Sean drags a deeply reluctant Steven kicking and screaming into the blood-soaked world of cult Italian filmmaker Lucio Fulci. Sean, naturally, argues that Fulci was far more than just “the gore guy,” championing the dreamlike atmosphere, bleak surrealism, and nightmarish logic that made his films unlike anything else in horror cinema. Steven, meanwhile, stubbornly refuses to budge from his position that Fulci’s work is riddled with ropey dubbing, shonky production values, and unapologetic trashiness.

Thankfully, things remain surprisingly amicable as we work through a curated selection of Fulci’s horror, murder mystery, and Giallo work, including One on Top of the Other, A Lizard in a Woman’s Skin, Don’t Torture a Duckling, The Psychic, Zombie Flesh Eaters, City of the Living Dead, The Black Cat, The Beyond, The House by the Cemetery, The New York Ripper, Manhattan Baby, Conquest, Murder Rock, The Devil’s Honey, Aenigma, and A Cat in the Brain.

Along the way, we discuss Fulci’s evolution from stylish thriller director to the undisputed godfather of eyeball trauma, his fascination with surrealism and decay, his uneasy relationship with narrative coherence, and why his films continue to inspire horror fans decades later.

Dreamlike, gruesome, atmospheric, ridiculous, mesmerising. Lucio Fulci cinema is many things, but Steven would just prefer if at least one actor sounded like they were in the same room as each other.